Glory Days
by Grace Hightower
Summary: AU. Teenaged John Watson's father takes a job at the Holmes' manor...and John takes an interest in the youngest Holmes brother: Sherlock. When everything is keep them apart, will they find love?
1. A Fresh Start

A/N: Hello, guys! So since I got so many lovely reviews for 'Dear John', I wanted to try another Sherlock fanfiction. Hope that you all enjoy and that this is a little historically accurate. Please read and review!

It was going to be a year without summer. John Watson, hunched in the passenger seat of his father's ancient Trabant, stared miserably out the window at the passing countryside. Although the scenery was beautiful-albeit a little gloomy-he couldn't shake the feeling of deep melancholy that had been stalking him since they left London. He should have been back in Tottenham, playing football with his mates and chasing girls. Not driving miles out into the godforsaken country with his father. Why couldn't the man have gotten a job in the city? John thought that the sudden move had more to do with their empty flat, haunted with memories of Helen Watson, than with a job offering in someplace called 'Bakerfieild Manor'

Shortly after four o'clock, they passed through a gloomy little hamlet called Milltown. The sky was already darkening and a bank of storm clouds had rolled in from the north.

"Almost there," George said, his voice hopeful. It was the first time he had spoken in several hours, and John glanced over at his father in surprise. He sounded lighter, happier, and John got the distinct impression that the farther they got from London the better off his father would be.

"Can't wait," he muttered. The sarcasm was luckily lost on his father, who kept glancing out the window and was alternating between taking his eyes off the road to squint at the map and muttering to himself.

"Dad," John asked carefully, "are we lost?"

George shook his head vehemently and whistled tunelessly, the way he always did when they were hopelessly disoriented. John remained silent as his father drove up and down the same road several times and then made an illegal turn onto a narrower lane.

"I think this is it," he muttered. "Yes, this must be it."

John's eyes widened. An enormous gate stretched between two stone pillars, and visible through the ornate wrought iron was a palatial home surrounded by expansive green fields. A gravel drive curved ahead of them.

"I guess we'll just wait here for someone to come let us in," said George offhandedly. John nodded silently and stared out the front window. He could see a pair of sleek horses roaming in the field behind the gate. After a few minutes in awkward silence, John noticed a tall, thin man walking towards the gate. He wondered if this was the man of the house, but upon closer inspection realized that it was actually an older man in full butler garb. He pulled some kind of lever on the side of the gate and it swung open, allowing the Watson's old car to slide through.

"My name is Jeeves," the man announced in a slightly nasal London accent. "I'm the head butler at Bakerfield."

_Are you joking? A butler named Jeeves?_ John wondered. He refrained from laughter, because Jeeves didn't seem much like the type to kid around.

"Nice to meet you," George said, offering a hand through the rolled down window. "I'm the new groom."

Jeeves stared down his slightly crooked nose at them. It was quite obvious that he thought himself far above the Watsons.

"The stables are that way. Your quarters are above the main building." He pointed towards a huddle of low buildings a quarter mile from the house. George nodded, gulped audibly and drove forwards. In the passenger seat, John clenched and unclenched his fingers.

Their 'quarters' turned out to be a single drafty room above the main stables that smelled strongly of hay and horses. John didn't terribly mind, because the heavy odor reminded him of his childhood watching his father hand walk horses at Greater London Raceway. However, it was quite chilly in the room and there was only a thin blanket on the lumpy cot by the window. In the end, John dragged a slightly crusty horse blanket over the thin wool spread and lay there in the half-light, his stomach aching in hunger. His father was down in the stable, talking to the other grooms. John lay there in the dark for a long time before he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

**Again, I'm no expert on the 60's and my mom doesn't remember it...plus I'm American so I have little to no knowledge of British pop culture during the time. If I got something wrong, please tell me! :) Thanks guys!**


	2. Smoke

**Hi guys! So I hope this chapter is better than the last. Thanks for reading and please review! **

John woke in the watery grey light of a cloudy morning. His father had already gone down to work in the stables, leaving behind a rumpled bed and the smell of strong black coffee in the air. He dressed quickly, figuring that he might at least explore the grounds a little. It was too cold for May, and gooseflesh prickled his arms.

Outside, the air was crisp and clear, the sky the color of slate. John wandered away from the stables, up the gravel road towards the main house. In the daylight, Bakerfield manor looked even bigger, with its flying buttresses and hundred windows. He saw his father in the paddock, lunging a handsome thoroughbred horse.

"Hey!" A voice behind John startled him and he jumped a little. A teenage boy, maybe a seventeen or eighteen, stood behind him, waving. He wore a faded shirt and jeans and held a spade in one hand. "Are you the new bloke?"

John forced a smile onto his face and held out his hand. The other boy took it and gave a hearty shake.

"Greg Lestrade. I work in the gardens, a summer job, you know."

John nodded.

"My dad's a stablehand," he offered. Greg nodded and smiled; John instinctively liked him. The other boy had a cheerful, open face and kind eyes. He seemed like the kind of person you could trust with a secret.

"So how do you like it here?"

John looked around the expansive grounds, the lush fields bordered by the dark forest. It was beautiful, sure, but there was something very lonely about it.

"It's nice," he said cautiously. As John looked up towards the house, he noticed a pale shape in one of the rightmost windows. When he squinted, he saw that it was a teenage boy who quickly disappeared when he saw John looking.

"Who's that?" He asked. Greg, who had been gazing out at the woods with a slightly distant expression on his face, turned and cocked one eyebrow.

"Who?"

"The boy," said John, pointing up towards the house. "I just saw him, in the window, right there."

Greg squinted towards the house.

"Oh. Probably the youngest Holmes brother, he's a real oddball." He shook his head dispassionately. "Never talks to anyone."

"Oh," said John quietly. He wasn't sure exactly why, but he felt a little thrill of foreboding. Something about this place seemed a little off, though he wasn't sure what it was. Maybe the permeating gloom that hung low over the fields and the house.

"Well, I should get back to work," Greg said finally, hoisting the spade over his shoulder. "See you round...you never said your name."

"John," he said. "John Watson."

Greg grinned at him.

"See you round, John!"

And he walked off into the sprawling grounds, whistling cheerfully. John stood there for a moment, watching Greg return to his duties, then turned and headed for the stables.

Nearly six hours later, John had handwalked three horses-all strapping fox hunters-and lunged a handsome black colt. The black colt, named Jupiter, gave John much trouble, prancing about at the end of his lead shank and tossing his head. He attempted to rear and John gave the line a firm jerk. Jupiter fixed him with a sly dark gaze before unleashing a vicious kick in John's general direction. John felt very relieved when he put Jupiter back into his stall.

His father said that he would go into the village and get a dinner for them, so John remained behind to wander through the grounds. He wound up through the thin woods by the side of the gravel drive, then back down to the stable. When he reached the low cluster of outbuildings, John rounded the corner and saw the burning end of a cigarette glowing in the early dusk. A tall, thin figure reclined against the brick wall of the stables, one leg braced and the other bent at the knee. John squinted, he could make out a long coat with gleaming brass buttons and thick, curly hair.

"Hello?" He asked, and the figure turned towards him. John started a little, recognizing the other boy-the youngest Holmes brother, the one that Greg had warned him about.

"You must be John Watson." His accent was clipped, well-educated, John guessed boarding school.

"Uh, yes. Yes, that's right."

There was a long beat of silence. The boy tilted his head back, exposing an alabaster neck, and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke that blended with the hazy dusk.

"You must be..." John was unsure of a name to pin to that mysterious figure.

"Sherlock." The boy stepped out of the shadows, revealing a cold, smooth-featured face framed with curly dark hair. "Sherlock Holmes."

John was unsure of how to react to this dramatic introduction-he had always assumed that people only did things like this in spy films. Everyone he knew spoke with a thick accent that suggested hard work and a decent if not simple life.

"Well, nice to meet you, Sherlock."

He offered his hand and the other boy gripped it. Sherlock's touch was cool and smooth, vaguely reptilian, and his eyes flitted up and down John's form. He was suddenly intensely aware of his threadbare sweater and that fact that he probably smelled a little like a horse.

"Same," Sherlock drawled, retracting his hand. "You're from London, then? The East End?"

A little shocked that Sherlock knew this, John nodded.

"Yeah. How did you know?"

The other boy took a long drag on his cigarette, his pale eyes still roving John's figure.

"Your accent suggests a working class neighborhood, your clothes are at least five years out of date, the bottom of your shoes are peeling off from use. And you have an older sister, who's moved out of the house after your mother's death."

John stared at him, shell-shocked, as Sherlock sucked in and then exhaled the sweet blue smoke. There was a smug half-smile playing on his face, and John found himself at once angry and fascinated.

"How the _bloody _hell did you know that?"

"Deduction, my dear Watson."

Sherlock winked at him, then whipped around the corner of the stable, black coat fluttering behind him like a shadow. John stood there, staring at the ground, where Sherlock had dropped his cigarette. He watched as the glowing end burned brightly for a second more, then faded out.


	3. Biology

**A/N: Warning! This chapter contains a few swear words-the 'f' word. Tell me if this is offensive and I can censor them next time. :) Please review-I need to know what you are thinking so I can make this better. **

It was several days before John saw Sherlock again. The other boy seemed to avoid going outside before dark; according to Greg, the youngest Holmes waited until dusk to go lurk behind the outbuildings and smoke.

"He's a fucking addict," Greg said. "Goes through a pack a day."

They were sitting on a rocky promontory that overlooked the sweep of fields surrounded Milltown and Bakerfield. The sky above was slate grey, grim and threatening rain. A dark bank of clouds hunched low over the swelling hills and the forest.

"He seems...interesting," John offered, not wanting to be rude. Greg snorted.

"Yeah, interesting's one word for it. Bit of a weird one, that Sherlock."

John drew his knees up to his chest and watched a flock of crows take off from the waving grass. Something about Bakerfield Manor was very lonely and dull, he could not imagine spending all his time there.

"I've never seen the parents," John commented. "Must not be around much."

Greg shook his head.

"They're never here. Mycroft basically runs the place...does it with an iron fist, too."

"Who's Mycroft?"

Greg faked an elaborate shudder.

"Sherlock's older brother, real prick."

"Oh," John said. Already he felt cold and empty when he thought about Bakerfield. He hoped that his father would get into his right mind so they could go back to London. Down in the village, church bells began tolling noon. Greg stood, brushing off his pants.

"Guess I'd better be going then." He flashed John a quick smile. "See you round, Johnny-boy."

John grinned at him, and they both walked slowly back towards the manor.

Later that afternoon, John sat out behind the stables, his biology textbook propped up in a bale of hay. Jupiter was turned out in the paddock and was bucking around in the growing dusk. As usual with horses, he spooked at every shadow he saw, fearful that each fluttering blade of grass might be a monster that would devour him.

"Are you taking good care of him?"

The voice that came suddenly from behind John made him jump several inches and twist around on his bale. Sherlock was lounging against the wall of the building, resembling a black panther with his dark coat and curly mop of hair. It must be the eyes-pale and slightly unsettling-that drew John in.

"Jupiter?" John asked. "Yes, he's a real pleasure."

He didn't mean to sound sarcastic but the words came out a little bitter. In the paddock, Jupiter gave a loud, slightly indignant snort.

"See?" Sherlock chuckled. "He knows he's being talked about."

John watched as the dark-haired boy sidled closer, blue eyes falling on John's open book.

"Biology?" He inquired, tilting his head to read the passage. John cleared his throat, suddenly feeling quite awkward.

"Yes."

"Ah, it's Basic then?"

John nearly blushed. He had heard people talk about Sherlock's genius-level IQ and thought that the other boy was probably taking Honours level courses in every subject. Basic science likely seemed child's play to him.

"Yes," John admitted. Far from scoffing, Sherlock took a seat on the bale beside him. He kept his distance, a good few inches between them.

_Probably doesn't want to touch a commoner like me_, John thought and felt guilty at once. So far Sherlock Holmes had not shown him no ill signs. John hoped it stayed that way.

"Well, you've got that one wrong," Sherlock said lazily. "And number three as well. And number four."

John felt his cheeks redden.

"Science isn't my best-" he began lamely. Sherlock cut him off smoothly.

"I can help you, if you'd like. Come up to the house tomorrow at seven o'clock. Bertha will show you upstairs."

And then, quick as a shadow, Sherlock whipped out of sight. John sat there for a moment, staring at his textbook, before he realized that it had grown too dark to read anything.


	4. A Skull on the Mantle

**I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed this so far. :) Please continue with your awesome feedback and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

The sun was going down, leaving Bakerfield bathed in a dusky half-light. John had excused himself early from dinner and gone up to the manor house. It wasn't as though awkward silence over cold fish and chips was much sticking around for anyway.

He knocked on the vast door and waited for someone to answer. He hoped his father didn't wonder why he had come up here-it didn't seem right to be associating with the boss, or his son for that matter. Still, John desperately needed to complete his summer homework or he risked having to repeat the class. He felt certain that there would be nothing more humiliating than being crammed into a classroom with students a year below himself.

The door swung open a crack and a thin, nervous-looking young woman stood framed between the oak jam and the door itself. Her reddish hair was stuffed up under a white maid's cap and John was startled to realize that people actually had uniformed servants these days. It seemed like something that only happened in films or stuffy old novels about the 'good old days' of England.

"Hello. I'm here to...er, meet with Sherlock Holmes."

The girl stared at him for a long moment, as though she didn't quite understand.

"Oh!" She exclaimed suddenly. "Oh, yes, of course. Please, er, please come in."

John allowed himself to be lead into a vast marble entrance hall. Polished stone, cool and impersonal, seemed to be the main theme of Bakerfield manor. They passed a dozen anti-chambers filled with heavy antique furniture. It was all very chill and silent. John's reflection, pale and out of place in his old clothing, bounced back at him from gilded mirrors and polished silver hunting trophies.

Up the stairs and off a narrow hall, towards the back of the house, was a thin door on which someone had pasted a 'do not disturb' sign. A skull and crossbones had been stenciled beneath the writing. The red-haired girl paused for a moment, then gave John a slightly nervous smile and then fled down the hallway and disappeared around a corner.

Left alone, John raised one hand and knocked on the door. There a long moment of silence, and John wondered if Sherlock had forgotten about his offer. After all, helping the horse groom's son with biology was hardly a priority for a wealthy lad like Sherlock. Then the door opened a bit, and a pale face appeared there.

"Come in," said Sherlock, opening the door a little wider to allow John inside. His first impression of the other boy's bedroom was that it was the complete opposite of the rest of the manor. Equally as gloomy, but in a much different way. The walls had been covered in anatomical posters and medical charts. Dismal classical music was issuing from a record player in the corner. A periodic table had been taped up over the bed. Creepily enough, what looks like a human skull sat on the bookshelf, which was overflowing with heavy volumes.

"Nice place," John lied. Sherlock stretched and yawned, as though he found it boring.

"Not exactly, but it will do."

_At least you've got your own room_, John thought glumly.

"Here." Sherlock swept a mass of books, paper and various other clutter off a heavy oak desk near the curtained window. "Put your things here, we'll start by correcting your wrong answers."

John set his tattered book bag on the floor and dug out his textbook. He took a seat gingerly on an antique-looking chair. Sherlock peered over his shoulder like a schoolteacher.

"You've got problem one wrong. Cells don't divide in that order."

John hastily rubbed the writing out with his eraser, but couldn't recall the correct answer. He hemmed and hawed, then reread the passage on the page above, reluctant to ask for Sherlock's help.

"Just switch step two and step four around, that's it," Sherlock intoned from above. John was turning slightly red as he scribbled down the answer. Like his father, he disliked having to ask for help.

"Thanks," said John grudgingly. Sherlock hummed quietly in response. The gloomy violin music had stopped playing and now an awkward silence filled the room. John struggled through a few more problems, then reached a long-response question about fatal mutations. Frustrated, John tossed down his pencil. Beside him, Sherlock had stopped pacing and taken a seat on the edge of his bed.

"Shall we take a break?" The other boy asked. John nodded.

"Sure."

There was a long silence; neither of them knew quite what to talk about. It was obvious that the two boys belonged to very different worlds: Sherlock's was one of cold manor houses, private boarding schools and hunt clubs, John's was one of public schools, church on Sunday morning, football with his mates, the struggle to make ends meet in a working-class neighborhood.

"So, you've come from London." Sherlock asked. "What school?"

"Saint Andrews," John answered. It was the local public school, where boys from working-class families went and got a cheap education and then went out and got jobs and raised their own working-class families and sent their sons to Saint Andrews. "Where do you go?"

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and stretched his arms above his head. John thought suddenly that the other boy was very catlike, there something panther-like about his cool gaze and fluid movements.

"Merwick Academy, it's up north. Scotland."

"Oh," John said. Merwick, like everything else that Sherlock surrounded himself with, sounded stuffy and glum.

"It's not very good," Sherlock added. "Quite..._average_."

He said the last word with audible disgust, and John suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Sherlock was clearly used to things being above-par, things that were extraordinary and exciting.

"I should go," he said, gathering his textbooks. "It's getting late, I don't want my dad to worry."

Sherlock's expression registered little surprise at his pupil's sudden departure.

"Of course," he drawled. "See you around."

John paused in the doorway. He felt a little guilty, leaving Sherlock sitting alone in the dark and the silence.

"Thanks for the help," he said quickly, then turned and hurried down the hallway. He realized that he was a little lost; in the semi-darkness the house seemed much larger, if that was possible. Finally John located a narrow side door off a lightless hall on the first floor and slipped outside. The night was full and sweet, a heavy dark sky arching over the landscape. John headed down the gravel road towards the lighted stables in the distance. He turned and glanced back towards the manor house, wondering what Sherlock was doing up there in his gloomy bedroom.

"Where were you?" George asked when his son banged through the door a few minutes past nine.

"Just out and about," John replied. He had planned on not telling his father about needing help with biology-George wanted his son to do well in school and would fret if he thought John was struggling-and most certainly _not _about Sherlock. He didn't think that his father would approve of him hanging around with the boss's son. It wasn't _proper, _it would be considered _impolite_. John crossed the room to his low cot by the window and slowly changed into his pyjamas. He flopped down onto his bed and began reciting the steps of cell division slowly in his head. Eventually, he fell into a restless slumber.


	5. Rumours

**Sorry for updating a sudden rush of chapters. Hope you enjoy this one as well.**

Nearly a week passed before John and Sherlock met again. The weather had become hot and still, horribly so. The trees were still, not a leaf rustling, the water on the pond was stagnant. The horses sweated while out to pasture, flies buzzed everywhere. John had been put in charge of a string of hunting horses, including the feisty Jupiter. He had little time for any homework at all, and while he attempted to do his biology at night, it was becoming harder and harder to complete the problems without getting stuck more than once. He was supposed to be in the Trigonometry class next year, but John knew too well that if he couldn't do the homework he would have to retake Algebra. He despised maths-didn't everyone?-but his father insisted that he take (and excel) in every possible class. George claimed that he wanted his son to do well no matter what, but John knew that his father dreamed of having a son who prospered in life, left the working-class neighborhood and could one day afford the luxuries that George himself never could.

Wednesday evening found John sitting with his back against the pasture fence, watching his herd of horses graze contentedly beneath the lavender sky. They flicked their tails, lazy, and stamped their feet to ward off the flies. John, who had neither hooves nor a tail, resorted to fanning the airborne pests away with his World History packet.

Greg had gone off to London to visit a sister who had recently had a baby, leaving John on his own. There was the thin, nervous young maid from the manor house, but John hadn't seen her again. He wondered if she had been fired; it seemed like something that the elusive Mycroft Holmes might do-give someone the boot for making a small mistake. John had never met Sherlock's older brother but had heard plenty about him from Greg, who swore that the other man was the devil in human form.

"Right prick, just like his brother," Greg said. John didn't quite agree; after all, Sherlock had been kind enough to help with biology that once. Secretly he had hoped for another study session, but it seemed rude to ask. After all, Sherlock was the boss's son and John was simply an employee.

_Speak of the devil, and the devil shall appear. _

As if summoned by John's thoughts alone, Sherlock Holmes came striding across the lawn, his dark coat flapping slightly behind him despite the overbearing heat. This gave him the overall appearance of a large, ungainly bat and John began to chuckle.

"What's so funny, Watson?" Sherlock demanded, drawing closer. John stifled his laughter, realizing that the other boy didn't share his humor.

"Isn't it a bit hot out for that coat?"

Sherlock gave him a slightly icy stare.

"I'm glad you find my attire so amusing."

John would have begun to laugh again but feared that Sherlock might slap him. He watched as the other boy leaned over the rail fence and gave a high whistle. At once, Jupiter's ears pricked up and the ebony colt trotted towards his master, neck extended. He really was a beautiful horse, his movements graceful enough for dressage, his sculpted form suited for the hunter ring. John wondered if Sherlock ever took him to horse shows.

The dark-haired boy put out his hand, revealing a sugar cube. Jupiter snatched the treat from his owner's palm and smacked his lips together, then bared his teeth. Sherlock chuckled, it was the first time John had ever seen him laugh or smile.

"Here," Sherlock dug another cube out of his pocket and tossed it to John, who offered it to the colt. Jupiter gulped down the sugar, than whisked his lips across John's hand. He snorted at the tickling sensation. Sherlock was watching him with an amused expression.

"I'm starting to think you're stalking me," John commented. "Do you only come out at night?"

Sherlock snorted.

"I was simply coming down to check on _my _horse. Last time that wasn't illegal." He paused. "Although if you still need help with that biology homework, I've run out of homework to do and it would be nice to revisit some of the basics."

John feigned offense at the fact that Sherlock clearly considered him to be feeble-minded, but inwardly felt a rush of relief. He felt a little guilty, _using _Sherlock like this, wanting only answers and no friendship.

"Tomorrow evening? Eight o'clock?" Sherlock suggested. John nodded.

"Sounds good to me."

Sherlock's pale lips curved into something that might pass for a smile.

"See you then."

It was not their last meeting, and over the course of several weeks John's biology skills began to improve. Thanks to Sherlock's careful-and smug-coaching, he was beginning to understand things like cell division and mutations that had previously eluded him. What startled John was that he didn't mind Sherlock's company-the other boy was not nearly as freakish as Greg had suggested. Still, he refrained from discussing their tutoring sessions with anyone else. His father thought that John was sailing through his homework and he had no plans to change this illusion.

"You know, you're not as bad as they say you are," John commented one evening as he filled out a biology worksheet. Sherlock was zipping through a thick Honours Chemistry textbook, one long finger tracking the words on the page. The dark-haired boy glanced up at John, one eyebrow tilting upwards.

"As who says?"

John regretted saying anything, he had let the words slip in a sudden moment of comfort. It was easy to forget sometimes that Sherlock was the child prodigy and the boss's son, and not a schoolmate.

"No one," he replied hastily. "What happened to the red-headed maid? The quiet one?" He inquired, hoping to distract Sherlock's attention.

"Oh, Molly Hooper? She's still around. I doubt she'll be here for much longer, she's quite clumsy. If there's anything Mycroft hates more than me, it's a blundering servant."

John nodded. He had seen Molly a few times around the house, dusting the various antiques. She and Bertha seemed to be the only other people who inhabited the manor, aside from Jeeves the snide butler.

"So what does your brother do, besides run this place? He's not here much, is he?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft occupies a minor position in the government. More like a minor position kissing his boss's arse."

This kind of crude language did not suit Sherlock, who generally spoke in the lazy, eloquent manner of the well-educated, and John chuckled.

"What about your parents?"

He expected Sherlock to reply in a similar manner, but instead the other boy froze. His pencil stopped scratching and when John glanced over his pale eyes were fixed to the paper.

"If you'll be quiet, please, I'm trying to concentrate."

John was silent for a moment. Obviously, Sherlock didn't enjoy discussing family matters, and who could blame him? His mother and father seemed absent at best. John wondered if they were even still alive. Either way, he took the cue and shut up.

It was Greg who informed him, several days later, that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were far from deceased. According to the gardner, they were globe-trotters who preferred traveling the world to raising their son.

"I've never really seen them," said Greg. "But who cares? I've got my paycheck at the end of the month anyroad."

He and John were sat out in the thin woods surrounding the pond, both boys staring across the rippling spread of blue.

"You should be careful of him, you know," Greg said suddenly. "Of Sherlock."

The warning was unexpected, and John raised his eyebrows.

"Why?"

"Well, he's a bit...odd," Greg offered. "They say he's a faggot. A queer."

The words struck a kind of cold fear into the pit of John's stomach. His heart suddenly felt strangely heavy. If Greg was telling the truth, if Sherlock was gay, this changed many things about their friendship. John considered himself a generally accepting person, but he wasn't sure if he would continue hanging around Sherlock if the rumors were true.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Greg continued. "I mean, _I _don't have a problem with them. My sister's friend is a queer, actually. He's a very nice bloke, I remember one time we were out at the pubs and..."

Greg launched into a long-winded tale about Devon the queer friend, but John wasn't listening. Something felt very wrong to him, though he wasn't sure entirely what it was. He made a note to bring this up with Sherlock. He would broach the subject carefully, drop a couple hints, try and determine if the other boy was keen on men.

_It doesn't matter to me, _John repeated to himself. _I just want to know, that's all._

But deep down, it mattered to him. It mattered very much.


	6. An Excellent Doctor

**Hello, everyone! So, here's another chapter...hope you enjoy!**

John had always thought of himself as an accepting person, someone who attempted to withhold judgements and hardly a bigot. But he was becoming increasingly frustrated as he tried to figure out the intricate puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't _seem _gay, if one could _seem _a sexuality. If anything, he seemed completely asexual, too cold and distant for human affection. There was certainly something alien about him, yet John had to admit that it held a certain allure. For girls, of course. He bet that they fawned over him, once they got past his chilly stare and obsession with forensics. Something about those blue eyes, so chilly and detached.

It was a balmy Friday evening, and John was sitting in Sherlock's bedroom, pretending to puzzle over his biology homework. Secretly, he had begun to enjoy the other boy's company, a realization that both startled and frightened him. He had started looking forwards to their weekly meetings, and even found excuses to plan more homework sessions with Sherlock. Tonight, the talk had turned to life after they left school.

"So," John said quietly. "I suppose you'll go into forensic science, then? Something with the police?"

Sherlock laughed humourlessly.

"The _police _are fools. They always look for the obvious explanation, whilst I have learned that it's generally the more discreet evidence that will lead you to the solution." He paused for a beat, then asked, "And you'll be a footballer, I expect?"

It was half-joking, but John had been the captain of his school team for two years now, despite his age and short stature, he was considered one of the top players. He never assumed that it would amount to anything beyond kicking the ball around with his mates or winning a few trophies for Saint Andrews.

"Actually, I wouldn't mind being a doctor."

The words slipped, almost unbidden, from his lips. Immediately, John put a hand over his mouth as if to stuff the words back in. He had never told anyone this secret desire of his, especially not his father, who would say that it was too hard to be a doctor, that he should try and become a banker instead. Sherlock, however, inclined one eyebrow and was staring at John with an appraising expression.

"What?" John snapped. "Think I'm too stupid?"

Sherlock simply stared at him.

"No, I don't think you're stupid at all." There was something almost gentle in his voice, it sounded strange coming from Sherlock. "And I think you'd make an excellent doctor."

John gaped at him for a moment, shocked. Though intelligent, he was far from the level of genius that Sherlock resided on.

"Thank you," John murmured. "That's kind."

"No," Sherlock drawled. "It's true. You've been conditioned to think that you're an imbecile, a brainless footballer. People rarely look past outer appearances, in my experience."

He was lounging against his headboard, twirling a pencil between his long fingers. In the dusky light from outside the window, Sherlock looked positively dashing, with his dark hair flopping into his piercing eyes. His skin looked pale, icy, as though some divine hand had carved him from marble.

_I wonder if he _feels _cold. _John imagined reaching out and touching Sherlock's sharp cheekbones, stroking the pale skin, one hand tangling in his dark hair, drawing him closer...

"Are you alright?"

John jumped a little; he realized that he had been staring, slack-mouthed, at Sherlock. The other boy was observing him with a quirked eyebrow.

"Yes," John stammered, well-aware that he was probably blushing bright red. "Just, erm...yes, I'm fine."

Sherlock returned to doing whatever math equations he had been doing before, and John turned towards the cool darkness outside the window and tried to settle his racing heart. He felt grossly flawed, sinful, fantasizing about someone so unattainable.

That night, John dreamed of Sherlock. He had always known that he had little control over what exactly his mind conjured up whilst he was sleeping, but this was something else entirely. He could barely recall the dream when he awoke in the morning, but his father informed him that he had been 'sort of groaning' in his sleep. John stood in the fresh light of the window, staring at the misty fields. His neck and ears felt hot, and he was filled with an overwhelming sense of shame. What in the hell was wrong with him? John had always considered himself _normal_, not a freak like everyone called Sherlock, just an average teenaged boy who was interested in football and pretty girls. Slowly but surly, however, that comforting conviction was slipping away, leaving him lost and confused. Not for the first time, John was becoming unsure of exactly who he was anymore.


	7. The First Time

**So sorry that this has taken a ridiculously long time. Hope you enjoy!**

**Hey I just met you**

**And this is crazy**

**But I wrote this fanfic**

**So review it maybe? **

It was becoming more difficult to control his emotions; John felt rather as though he were teetering on the edge of a very deep and dark abyss that was Sherlock Holmes. It was unbearably frustrating, having to sit at Sherlock's desk each evening, pretending to do his homework while secretly observing the other boy. There was something enthralling about his aloof attitude, his cold stare, how detached he seemed.

"This is _boring_," Sherlock complained loudly, tossing down his calculus textbook and pen. He did all his schoolwork in ink, allowing for no mistakes. Sherlock was meticulous like that. "How is your biology coming?"

John, who had not been thinking about science at all, glanced at his empty answer page.

"Poorly," he admitted. Damn Sherlock and his attractiveness. Whenever he was in the room, he seemed to install in John some kind of attention deficit disorder that vanished when he left the manor house. Sherlock strode over to the desk and bent over John's shoulder. He smelled like mint and soap, a somehow intoxicating combination, and John fought to keep his concentration.

"Ah, mutations." One pale finger tracked the print across the page, scanning the passage. "Fascinating material. _Give one example of a genetic mutation found in humans._" He read the question aloud, then chuckled.

"The answer should be obvious, John."

John squinted at the page, trying to act natural and ignore how close Sherlock was.

"Oh?"

Sherlock leaned closer, mere inches from John now.

"You have blue eyes, don't you, John?"

He was very close now, too close, far too close. And suddenly, Sherlock was kissing John and John was kissing him back, and John's fingers had tangled themselves in Sherlock's shirtfront, drawing him closer, starving for more. When they broke apart, John was flushing, his neck and ears felt very hot. Sherlock had somehow retained his icy detachment, though he looked a little more mussed than before. He was staring at John with a strange expression on his face.

_Oh God. What have I done? There's no way Sherlock's gay...he probably thinks I'm some kind of rapist freak, forcing myself on him like that. He'll hate me now!_

But Sherlock's smooth voice cut through John's frantic internal monologuing.

The taller boy tilted John's chin upwards.

"Have you ever snogged anyone before?"

There was one time, behind the school building, with Sarah Muller, a pretty brown-haired girl in John's year. But that was awkward, innocent, nothing like this time. Nothing like Sherlock.

"Not like this," John confessed. He was still clinging to Sherlock's shirtfront like some kind of desperate puppy. The other boy smirked sardonically. Sherlock was obviously enjoying his complete control over John. They both sat down on the bed, John's heart was hammering. He had certainly not planned on doing..._this_ with Sherlock. He had never expected to do anything of the sort with another boy.

"Relax, John," Sherlock commanded, placing a hand in the center of John's chest and pushing him backwards. "You're starting to make _me _nervous."

John found himself trapped between the headboard and a very _intent_ looking Sherlock.

"Imagine that," he panted. "Making _you_ come undone."

Sherlock gave a very devilish grin and pinned John's wrists against the bed. At once, John began to panic-he had not planned on things progressing this far. He struggled against Sherlock's grip, eventually wrenching himself free. Sherlock looked startled and worried.

"What's wrong, John?"

John face flushed as he gathered his books and papers.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I should go, my dad'll be expecting me..."

And he rushed from the room, leaving a silent Sherlock in his wake.

Once outside, in the warm rush of the evening, John leaned against the brick wall that surrounded the garden and breathed deeply. He felt as though he were taking part in a very elaborate, very strange dream. Suddenly, a piece of crumpled paper sailed down from the window above him-Sherlock's bedroom window. In spidery handwriting was a brief note: _tomorrow. eight o'clock. my room._

John stared at the paper for a long moment, his mind feeling very foggy. When he glanced backwards to wave in agreement, he realized that Sherlock was not waiting in the window. This had not been a request-it had been a command. John folded the paper into a tiny square and slipped it into his pocket. Then he continued down the curving drive and through the stableyard. His father was already asleep when John entered the little flat above the stables. It was probably a good thing, meaning that he wouldn't see his son's flushed cheeks and mussed appearance. George had no idea that John was anything but a girl-snogging, skirt-chasing footballer, and John planned on keeping it that way. If his father knew he had been snogging the boss's son...well, 'furious' would hardly be adequate to describe his reaction. John, however, was quite pleased.

The next evening, John hurried through his chores and splashed water on his face before hastening up the long drive to the manor house. He knocked twice with the heavy brass knocker, hoping that Greg couldn't see him. The older boy was pruning some rose bushes in the garden, his back to John.

_If Greg knows I'm a…a fucking poof, he'll never speak to me again_, John assured himself. He was relieved when the young red-haired maid, Molly, opened the door.

"Hello!" She said brightly. "Are you here to see Mr. Holmes?"

Apparently, there were three Holmes men, but John was intent upon seeing the youngest and seemingly most mysterious one so he nodded.

He followed her through the dark house, quite aware of how empty and gloomy it was. The Watson's flat in London had been tiny but at least it had been cheerful-before his mother died, that was. Still, at least it hadn't been a museum like this place.

Molly left John to his own devices in the upstairs hall, and John found his way to Sherlock's door. It swung open before he knocked. Sherlock, clad in trousers and a dark button-down shirt, leaned against the doorframe.

"John," he drawled. "How nice to see you again. Come to work on your _science_?"

John could feel his ears turning red, but he allowed himself to be pulled inside. At once, Sherlock's lips were on his, the other boy's fingers to catch in his shirtfront, pulling him closer.

"Sherlock," John half-whispered, running his fingers through the other boy's dark hair. His chest was aching, something within him stirring and rising like a beast that had previously been slumbering quietly. Sherlock pushed him backwards onto his rumpled bed, and John allowed the other boy's hands to skate across his chest and stomach. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling for a long while, his fingers gathered in the soft material of Sherlock's shirt, and when he looked down Sherlock was gazing down at him with remarkably blue eyes. When he felt Sherlock's fingers tugging at his belt buckle, John sat up.

"Sherlock-we-we have to stop…" He panted. Disappointment registered in Sherlock's blue eyes, but John didn't feel guilty. He liked Sherlock-perhaps 'liked' was an understatement, but he felt unready for whatever the other boy had in mind.

"I…I should go," he said lamely.

But in the end, John didn't go. He knew that he wouldn't. Instead, he ended up sprawled on Sherlock's bed, his head on the other boy's stomach. Sherlock's pale fingers were running absently through John's short hair.

"I've never…I've never done…_this_…before," John confessed quietly.

"You mean with another boy?" Sherlock asked, his fingers not stopping their gentle ministrations. John had once thought that Sherlock might be incapable of tenderness; he saw now how wrong he had been.

**Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Please review, I beg you!**


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